Binary
by Enigma-Eggroll
Summary: Defintion – adj:composed of, relating to, or involving two; dual. Noun: a pre-compiled, pre-linked program that is ready to run under a given operating system. Very simply, two very different people with two very different motivations, co-existing in the same space. Compliments the story Who You Are, Written for the Darcy Lewis Fic Exchange.


**Note: **This was written for the Darcy Lewis Fic Exchange - and is for my friend Em, who prompted Darcy and Bruce, unrequited, and angst. It happened to work very well as a parallel to my current work in progress – Who You Are – which she was dying to get the story of Darcy and Bruce, so here you are, my friend.

If you are not reading Who You Are, this can work as stand alone, but does compliment the overarching story.

* * *

**Binary**

You have played, (I think)  
And broke the toys you were fondest of,  
and are a little tired now;  
Tired of things that break, and –  
Just tired.  
So am I.

e.e. Cummings

**O-O**

For as much as it's after, life doesn't feel all that different from before.

Granted, the water is potable, and the electricity doesn't cut out when the wind blows in from the north, but that's to be expected. New York City is, after all, a first-world city.

The question is, first in what?

Most people would consider these changes necessities, not niceties. Then again, those people see life through a simpler lens, one tuned to their own special point of view: Unlimited Internet access, on demand information twenty-four/seven, and endless food, accessible at any time of the day or night.

They don't know what it means to be hungry or dirty, to worry as much about dying of malaria as being caught in rival militia gunfire. In a nutshell, they want for nothing, and because of that, they don't appreciate anything.

"Stay," Tony prompts. He's heartfelt, even though the delivery is flippant, a latent defense mechanism that erodes the potential power of his request. "You can be lead elf in the toyshop. "

"The toyshop isn't currently open for business," Bruce reminds him. It would be a lie to say he didn't want to play – it's been a long time since he's had access to this sort of technology, and the lure is mighty. Of all the things he's given up- alcohol, stimulants, social interactions- it's ironic that access to all that Stark Industries has to offer is what lures Bruce back into the fold.

Technology is what created this mess in the first place.

"We have the technology. We can rebuild him-" Tony says.

"That TV show wasn't good the first go around."

"You get the point, Banner. Name what you need; I'll make it happen."

It's the closest he'll get to pleading, but it works the same way a blank check would for a gambler, or a pile of blow to a junkie.

"On one condition," Bruce says, staring out over the New York skyline. He can't fight the lure, but he's aware enough to understand the implications. "Recreate the cell, or a version of it, but underneath. No sky."

Tony doesn't bat an eye. He doesn't ask why, either. That's one of the things that Bruce likes best about the man – he has ghosts of his own; he doesn't need or want to understand everyone else's.

**O-O**

Ten blocks south, there' a parallel soul – a young woman who's made a life of dancing right up to the edge. At the tender age of twenty-one, Darcy Lewis is fearless. Why shouldn't she be? She's seen more, maybe even lived more, in than most people have in their lifetime. What's refreshing about it all are that her experiences, while harrowing and life altering, have merely opened her eyes wider.

Instead of running away, she flies forward at breakneck speed, eager for more challenges and knowledge.

"He's decided to stay," Director Fury tells her. "You'll be inserted soon. Be ready."

"Yes, sir."

She'd expected more – more training, more information, more _more_ - but that rug was pulled out from underneath her the minute she arrived in New York. Agent Coulson, that goofy little man with the rocking dark suits and droll wit, was dead, and the man who's stepped into his place offers her nothing but orders.

If there's one thing Darcy does not deal well with, it's orders. She's pretty sure it's logged somewhere in the hastily compiled personality assessment – but it's pretty obvious that SHIELD is desperate, and she's the only game in town.

**O-O**

"Dr. Selvig." Bruce extends his hand. He knows exactly who Erik Selvig is, as well as his role in the havoc that was wrecked on Manhattan. He also knows that it's not fair to judge a person based on a sliver of who they are, or were, only what they could be. He's living proof of that. "It's good to finally meet you."

"Dr. Banner." Selvig's lined face is expressive and warm, his startling bright blue eyes full of wisdom and humor. "I have to say that I was surprised by your call. I would've thought after, well…" he tips his head to the side, his eyes narrowing, "you know."

"How much do you remember about your time with Loki?"

"Enough."

Bruce nods, and gestures toward the lab. Crates litter the floor, filled with all the toys that Tony promised. Soon enough, it will be ready, and when it is, Bruce plans on being, too.

He hands Selvig a felt tip pen, and nods toward a glass wall that bisects the huge lab. "Show me," he says.

"Show you what?"

"What you remember."

Selvig stares at him, confused and a bit awed. Maybe he's expected judgment or recrimination. Bruce understands that better than most. "You have more knowledge than any of us can ever begin to imagine. Let's use that to do something good, shall we?"

He's plotted this all out, lining up the enticements like breadcrumbs that will slowly lure Selvig in. Scientists, by nature, are skeptical. Disproving that skepticism is something he's been engineering for weeks - and it's just about to all pay off.

There's a dull screech of cardboard on tile, breaking the tension that hangs, ripe in the room.

"Sorry," a woman calls from a far corner. "These boxes are driving me crazy."

Erik Selvig's head whips in the direction of the voice. It's the first indication that they're not alone in the lab, and his cheeks color. Bruce wonders if it's distress or embarrassment. He watches the man closely, waiting for him to recognize the voice, and if not that, then the woman herself when she does finally appear.

_Follow the breadcrumbs,_ he thinks. _We aren't going to hurt you._

"Darcy?" Selvig says, stepping hesitantly in the direction of the noises. "Darcy Lewis, is that you?"

A head pops out from behind the stack of boxes, dark hair swept up into a makeshift knot, yellow pencils stabbed at haphazard angles to hold the mass of curls in place. Ms. Lewis came with the lab, and, while she is irreverent and not at all the fawning, overeager assistant he's used to, she's been tireless in her goal of getting the facility up and running. Just yesterday, she reduced one of the maintenance men to tears over his apathy and tardiness. The man was twice her height and almost three times her weight, and his shoulders literally drooped as she'd verbally dressed him down. Bruce was torn between feeling bad for him and laughing at the ridiculousness of it 's the perfect description of what Miss Lewis's presence does to him – a dreaded mixture of regret and amusement, which easily mixes into guilt. It's been a long time since anyone could pull those emotional strings in him – and it's a struggle for Bruce to regain control. He doesn't like that he has to fight so hard around her, that he feels the need to hide in his office so he doesn't hear her singing under her breath or smell her perfume.

Darcy Lewis, aside from being helpful, is here for other reasons, and he must learn to deal with that. Everything else she is, well, there's no place for that.

"Hey, Doc!" the girl says. She's smiling broadly, the way people do when they are pleasantly surprised, and completely oblivious to the dust that coats her clothing and streaks her face. "I know you missed me, but did you really need to cross three time zones? A phone call would have sufficed."

He watches in fascination as Erik Selvig transforms, all the worry lines melting away. He throws his arms open wide, and it only takes him a few seconds to cross the lab and sweep Darcy up in huge hug. She's all laughter and grins as he lifts her off the ground, her feet flailing back and forth as she's held high off the ground.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. The joy is clear in his voice, and when he puts Miss Lewis down, he doesn't let her go.

"She's part of your bait," Bruce says, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm going to make it hard for you to say no."

**O-O**

Three weeks later, the lab is up and running and the glass walls are covered in ink. Algorithms, diagrams, and notes fill every open space, a mixture of Erik's sloppy, angular scrawl and Bruce's neat, square print. Darcy transcribes it all, typing up the formulas and comments, and then saving them to the server for future access.

The tiny, encrypted thumb drive embedded inside the huge signet ring she wears on her thumb is useless, and she's long since given up on wearing the thing. All the USB ports are locked down. Access to networks outside of Stark is impossible, too.

She's been given two relatively simple tasks, and she's already failing miserably at one. Pretty soon, Fury's going to be calling, demanding to know 'what in the hell is going on down there.' Other than Bruce almost burning down the lab by leaving the coffee pot on overnight, the answer would be a hell of a lot of nothing. At least nothing that makes any sense.

"Why do you look so down?" Erik sits down on the corner of her desk, his plaid shirt stretching tight across his stomach. He's put on weight since the desert, but, like most brilliant men, he's too caught up in his work to realize that his clothes are too small.

"You'd think I'd know all the symbol codes by now," she says, "Word is not designed to capture algorithms."

"It's a far cry from Jane, isn't it?"

Darcy clicks on the icon in the top left corner; the little square symbol that she's only learned represents a floppy disk. She's learning a lot in this job, some of which is useful, and some of which is completely random. Everything reinforces the age gap between her and her bosses.

"I don't know, the food's better, and even though the commute is a bitch, I'm not sleeping in a double wide."

She's aware of Erik staring at her, alert and aware. How can he be so oblivious about the way he looks, but see through her so easily?

"Let's take a break and go get some coffee," he says.

"I need to finish this, plus-"

"Darcy."

Erik has a way of saying her name, a mix of authority and recrimination that most parents would envy. He doesn't use it often, but when he does, she can't resist. It would feel too much like disappointing her dad, and, given the amount of disappointment she's felt of late, she can't handle much more.

They don't talk as the elevator carries them up to the ground level. Erik breezes past the small little coffee stand in the lobby, leading Darcy out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Two blocks down, there's a small Greek diner, the type that serves breakfast all day, along with no frills black coffee in chipped ivory earthenware cups.

"Hey, Darlin'," the waitress calls out as they enter. "Grab a spot anywhere."

Darcy tips her head, eyebrows raised to question the greeting. Erik simply shrugs and smiles. The idea of _anyone_ calling him Darlin' is ridiculous.

"The coffee here is good," he says, sliding into a booth in the far corner. "And the Galaktoboureko is amazing."

"The what?"

"Galaktoboureko – it's like a custard pie wrapped in phyllo dough. Trust me," he hesitates, but doesn't look away. "And I mean about more than dessert, young lady."

"God, will you stop!" The dad voice is bad enough, but cracking out the disappointed 'young lady' is more than she can take. "It's not like this isn't hard enough!"

"How did they get their hooks in you?"

"I don't-" she's ready to deny, to dismiss, but the waitress who called Erik 'Darlin' descends, all cheap perfume and bright red lipstick, her broad hips and ample bust reinforcing every bad cliché there's ever been about a diner waitresses. Taking pity, or maybe control, Erik orders for both of them, rattling off his request so quickly that Darcy doesn't even try to follow. It's hard enough trying to keep up with the science speak. Besides, the extent of her foreign language exposure was ordering more beer in Tijuana (Mas cerveza, por favor) and completely Latin legal terminology.

"I know you're working for SHEILD," Erik says when the waitress departs.

"How?"

He doesn't answer, merely looks down his nose at her, his eyebrows rising high enough to force deep creases in his forehead.

"Don't give me the 'bitch please' look, Erik, it doesn't suit you."

"But lying about who you are is okay?"

"I haven't lied to anyone. I'm not using a fake name, there's no falsification on my job application…"

"And I'm guessing there's no mention of UCLA. You know, people would kill to get into law school, Darcy, how could you throw it all away?"

She turns and stares out the window. The sidewalks are full of people, all dressed in varied shades of black and gray, rushing to and fro. It's taken a long time to get used to this hustle and bustle, the constant need to hurry here or there. New Mexico wasn't like this, and neither was California. It was beautiful and warm, it never rained, and no one ever rushed unless they were doing one hundred on the freeway.

Maybe that was the problem.

Change, or different, has worked its way deep into Darcy's soul. She knows that there's more out there, whole worlds and concepts that she doesn't have the first clue about. How could anyone who's seen what she's seen, willingly sit in class and learn about constitutional law, torts, and habeas corpus?

Erik leans forward, his arms resting lightly on the scared Formica surface. "What are you doing, Darcy?"

"I'm not sure," she mutters. "I thought I did, but I don't."

There's no relief in the admission, but sharing it lifts a load off her shoulders. There's no resolution, but at least she's not carrying this secret alone.

The sit in silence for a long time, the coffee and pastry providing a distraction from all the things too heavy to speak, but too meaningful to ignore.

**O-O**

The tower is quiet late at night, the comforting hum of servers and HVAC systems providing a numbing drone of sameness as the hours tick by.

Maybe it's the lack of sleep or too much MSG, but the nostalgia has crept its way into Bruce's gut, gnawing and clawing his insides until he can't resist any longer. He should sleep - fold his jacket up like a pillow and curl up on the couch in his office for a few hours. Or, even better, he should go home. Fresh clothes, a shower, and a good sleep in a real bed are what he really needs, not this.

Instead, he plops down in the oversized office chair, which is still too stiff. The base creaks and groans under the impact and his weight, then pops in protest as he digs his feet into the ground, stopping the backwards motion in front of a long, low set of filing cabinets.

The whole notion of physical document storage is ridiculous in this day and age. No one prints anything anymore, and written notes are converted to digital files before the ink is dry. It makes him long for simpler times – the side of his hand coated in blue ink, a smudge of blue on Betty's cheek as they laugh about something ridiculous.

She's been popping into his mind more and more lately- her laugh, the way she'd call him on his moods or force him to eat when he was too busy to care. The memories are torture, pure and simple; flashes that tell a story, and then leave an ache a mile wide. Betty Ross is now Betty Talbot, and there's no room in her world for someone like him anymore.

Bruce hesitates in front of the cabinet, debating the merits of going back to _that_ time. He's gotten so good at controlling it all, at keeping Betty locked somewhere deep inside where he doesn't feel it all so much. It's his biggest mistake, the one that got away – or, more appropriately, the one he chased away. Slowly, he eases open the drawer, breathing deeply. Jasmine tea was always her favorite, and he still buys it, even though he can't stand to drink it. There are stacks and stacks of packets in the drawer, along with a thick journal filled with all the things that he never wants to forget.

"What are you still doing here?"

The journal, heavy and awkward, topples to the floor as Bruce spins around. Miss Lewis is standing the doorway, her hands braced on either side of the door for support.

"Sorry," she apologizes, rushing forward to help him scoop up the photos and articles that litter the floor. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay," he says hastily. "I didn't realize you were still here."

Darcy's too busy shuffling the different pictures and clippings together to realize he's watching. She's china doll fair, with full red lips and an easy smile, but that's where the resemblance ends. Her hair is a thick chestnut, more red than brown, with waves that turn into curls in humidity. When she looks up at him, her eyes are more green than blue, and full of the kind of spunk that he remembers from childhood.

_She's not Betty,_ he tells himself. _Stop trying._

"I was going to go get some sushi," she says. She passes the stack to him, his entire history cradled in her hands. "You want some? There's a little hole in the wall place a few blocks over that makes a to die for spicy tuna roll."

Bruce places the pieces on his desk, refusing to look down. He's afraid of what he'll find staring up at him.

"Tell you what," he says, "You by, I'll fly."

"Excuse me?"

She's looking at him like he's a lunatic, and suddenly Bruce feels ancient. How old is this girl, and how can she reduce him to such a bumbling idiot?

"If you call and order, I'll pick it up."

"Any special requests?"

"Uni, and ask if they have any Monk Fish Livers.'

"Isn't that the stuff that kills you?"

Bruce smiles, and when he does meet Darcy's eyes, he feels the weight lift.

"That which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger."

**O-O**

That's the night that Darcy begins to fall – hook, line, and sinker.

Sure, she knew about it all. The less than Jolly Green Giant, the girlfriend who threw him over when it all became too much to bear. She knew about the running and hiding, the moments where he fell apart, and then how hard he worked to put it all back together.

Darcy knew about it all, but she didn't know Bruce. That only came through proximity, through prolonged exposure and understanding. Reading a file doesn't reveal the little things, like the way he pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger when he was concentrating, or the way he waved his hands in the air when he spoke.

It didn't prepare Darcy for the deep empathy and kindness that lurked underneath the reserved, cool exterior, or the wicked sense of humor, so dry that it cut.

They push aside the journals and the notebooks, the tablets and the other detritus, and spread out their feast. It's way more food than they need, but, when it comes to sushi, too much is never enough.

Bruce teaches her how to free edamame by using her teeth to scrape the beans directly out of the pod – it releases the salt along with the lentils, enhancing the flavor while looking completely vulgar. In return, she steals the pickled ginger off his plate, evading teasing clips with his chopsticks. It feels good to be so light, and Darcy almost forgets why she's really here, along with what she's supposed to be doing.

She's reaching for another piece of unagi when the spider scampers across the countertop, its body black and shiny in the bright overhead lights.

Her reaction is completely involuntary and totally ridiculous.

She scampers backwards, throwing her chopsticks across the room. They land somewhere behind a server rack, hopefully not impaling anything significant. She gets as far away as possible.

"What's wrong?" Bruce is standing, his chopsticks poised like Mr. Miyagi, waiting to catch a fly as it buzzes by.

"Spider," her voice is high, "Right there."

"Where?" He's pursuing his lips tightly together in a feeble attempt to quash a smile. "I don't see anything."

He nudges the containers, scaring the beast into action. It scurries to the far end of the table, hesitating at the edge, as if weighing the best way to exit.

"Right there!" Darcy's bordering on hysteria now. She's always been horrified by spiders, and this one lives up to ever single fear. The body alone is easily the size of a small grape, and it's lightning fast. It could run up her leg in a heartbeat, sinking it's fangs into her arm and depositing who knows what.

Bruce grabs one of the empty takeout containers, and moves quickly around the table. Before the spider can bolt, he uses a chopstick to nudge it into the carton, and then flips the flaps closed.

"Better?"

"It's still here," she says.

"What did the poor spider ever do to you?" He holds up the container and smiles, but there's just the slightest hint of menace.

"In that container? Nothing, and I'd like to keep it that way. Me, wolf spiders, do not want."

"This isn't a wolf spider, it's an Orb Spinner. The look similar, but they're completely harmless."

"I don't care," Darcy says. "The look like wolf spiders, they have fangs, and they bite. That's enough for me."

"What do you have against wolf spiders?"

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

"They have fangs and they bite. I heard you. You do know that wolf spiders create beautiful things, too," Bruce insists.

"Like what."

He places the container on the edge of the table, far enough from the food not to make contact, but it doesn't matter, and Darcy's completely lost her appetite.

"There's a town in Australia, called Wagga Wagga-"

"Now you're just messing with me," she protests. "It's not nice to laugh at people."

"I'm not laughing, I'm telling a story. Wagga Wagga is about five hours inland from Sydney. They had some nasty flooding in the spring – it sent everything scrambling for cover, including…" Bruce points at the closed container, "the spiders. They wove these beautiful, delicate webs in trees, across wheat fields, anything and everything, just to survive. There were so many, and so close together, that the webs made everything look like it had been swathed in a layer of clouds."

"That's just…" Darcy shudders melodramatically.

"You should look up pictures," he says, refusing to use the pop culture slang for web search. His loyalties couldn't be bought by a search engine with snazzy branding. "They're beautiful. More importantly, they served a purpose – all the flooding created so many mosquitos, without the spiders, the townspeople would have been overrun."

"So the grossness had a purpose."

"Something like that."

"Well take grossness outside, Prince Charming. I'm going to go retrieve my chopsticks and hope that no mechanical object was impaled during my freak out."

"You don't want me to kill it?" He cocks his head to the side, and his eyebrows are raised in surprise.

"No! I think it's gross, but it can be gross and useful somewhere else, heavy emphasis on somewhere else."

She moves slowly toward the server array, taking special care to go the long way around the table and the potential offensive takeout container. Bruce is still watching her, and the look on his face is something she can't describe.

"Just go," she says, encouraging him on with a wave of her hand. "Be a hero, save the damsel, and I'll give you a kiss when you get back."

"Don't offer what you can't make good on."

"Just go."

**O-O**

Now, looking back over the past year, Bruce can pin point that very moment with Darcy and the spider as the exact place where she gained his trust. Maybe that's why he indulged her growing crush, which he did little to discourage.

Sure, he'd grown to enjoy having her around, and there were times where she dulled the pain and the memories with her irreverent sense of humor and inappropriate stories. There were other times, where things probably danced up to the line of inappropriate – hugs and hip checks and other little touches that violated every professional code ever written. Selfishly, Bruce may have encouraged this just a tiny bit, too. When she caught him off guard, it was easy to forget, and even easier to pretend. Past and present blend together, Betty and Darcy, Darcy and Betty, building a sense of peace that he'd not known in ages.

He's aware of her gaze right now, boring a hole in his back. There'd been conversation earlier about a trip out for pizza, but he's so close, and he can't stop.

"You should call Erik," she chides. It's the third time she's made a comment about contacting Selvig, but that would take time away, time he can't afford.

"Run it again," he says, typing furiously. The last circuit had been so close, the walls building and connecting as blue light filled the room. One or two calibrations should be all it takes, and the cube will hold. It has to hold.

"Bruce-"

"Run it again!"

She doesn't say anything, but that doesn't mean she agrees. There's the rapid fire of keystrokes, followed by a hard thump on the enter key. The servers blink to life, red and blue LED's indicating capacity load as the boxes process the commands.

The lasers, pointed directly at each other, spark once, twice, then roar to life, the beams clashing and then leveling out as the shape begins to form. Two walls, then the lines across the top and bottom, forming the outline of a cube. Bruce holds his breath, waiting for the light to fade, for the form to collapse.

But it doesn't.

The lasers slowly ramp down, the light fading to nothing. The cube is still there, glowing an unearthly, electric blue.

"I did it," he murmurs. The reality is slowly sinking in, followed by jolts of adrenaline and pride. It's not complete, not by any means, but the first, the hardest part, is done. He's recreated the receptacle, now he simply needs to fill the cube, and the answer to his problem will be within reach.

He's halfway there to recreating the Tesseract, and when he does that, he'll be able to exorcize the demon that controls his body, and he'll be free.

"I did it!" he roars, a smile spreading wide over his face. He spins to face Darcy, who's still at her workstation, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Is it stable?"

She checks the monitor, lips moving wordlessly as she reads off the radiation and energy levels.

"Yes."

The adrenaline is ripping through him now, the high of success so powerful and so heady that he doesn't stop to think. Bruce rips off his glasses and tosses them on the counter as he strides toward Darcy.

"What-"

She can't finish the sentence because he's jerking her up out of her seat, catching her around the waist so that she can't escape.

"Tell me I'm brilliant."

"You already know that," she says, brow creased in confusion. Her hands are flat against his chest, and she's not making and attempt to pull away.

"Okay, then, tell me to kiss you."

Darcy swallows, her eyes darting down to his lips, then back up to meet his gaze. She's still frowning, but he can see the longing there, too. He gets that, the desire to have a human connection, to feel something.

Instead of answering, Darcy just nods. It's all the invitation Bruce needs. His fingers dig into her hips, holding her tight as he attacks, nipping at her lower lip before kissing her hard. Her mouth opens easily under his, her hands slipping up into his hair as his tongue slips into her mouth.

Their kisses are sloppy and eager and noisy, but there's no one in the lab to notice or comment. At one point, Bruce backs her up into a table, sending a stack of notebooks and folders clattering to the floor. She breaks away to laugh, but it turns into a low moan as he moves down her body, pulling her shirt down to kiss the top of her breasts.

"Fuck," she mumbles, and rocks her hips forward to meet his. It was probably meant as more of a reaction than an invitation, but it works.

"Yeah?" He sucks hard on the tender pale skin just above her bra, which draws another moan.

"Fuck, yeah." She rocks into him again, so hard it almost hurts.

It's the only invitation he needs.

Bruce straightens up and spins Darcy around, his fingers making quick work of the button and zipper on his pants. She's doing the same, shimmying and struggling as she works free of her jeans, her shoes clattering on the hard concrete floor.

"Do you have-" she asks, but the words die as he strokes the inside of her thigh.

"I can't get you pregnant," he says, and even though he's half crazed with won't the pain still registers somewhere deep in his chest. "Do you trust me?"

Darcy turns to the side, her hand arcing up over so that she can grab him by the hair and pull him close for a kiss. It's an awkward angle, and she abandons the kiss as he begins to stroke her, her mouth open, eyes closed as she relaxes into him.

It's been so long since he's been with a woman, and the blood is roaring in his ears now, perilously close to that roar, but not quite. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can feel the other guy pacing back and forth, manic at the sensations that are pounding them both. He doesn't know what to do when there's this level of adrenaline, but no anger or fear, and it confuses him.

That's all it takes to push Bruce over. He's free right now, the promise of release, both physical and emotional, so close he can taste it.

He pushes gently on Darcy's back, and she folds over willingly onto the lab table, her legs spread wide. It only takes a movement or two and he's in her, and she's moaning and bucking against him, hot and eager. Bruce tries to relax, to regain some level of control, but she feels so good, and he wraps a hand in that long, dark hair, losing himself in the noises she makes.

They don't last long, but god, it's good, bodies shaking and rocking and connecting in a way they haven't in ages. Bruce is lightheaded, and a white light rips through his mind, blinding and almost violent as he comes. He whispers her name, and leans forward, his forehead pressed against her back as he catches his breath.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," her voice is muffled, and Bruce immediately stands up, releasing pressure on her back. She pulls away and turns to face him. "But my name is Darcy, not Betty."

That's when it all comes crashing down.

"You should have called Erik," she says. It's an accusation, a replacement for what she probably really wants to say.

"You should go home," he says. "I'll take it from here."

And just like that, they're back to square one, but it doesn't matter now.

**O-O**

Maybe that's why the kiss, when he does kiss her again, is so startling. Unlike their brief - hell, she doesn't even know what to call it – in the lab, it's affectionate and concerned. But it's all wrong.

Bruce doesn't want her. Darcy figured that out a long time ago. She's just a warm body, a replacement for someone named Betty, someone he lost, or maybe someone he never had. Either way, it's too little, too late. But she's too tired to fight, warn down after days of captivity and confusion. She follows Bruce's lead gratefully, refusing to give in to that little ray of hope that's threatening to break through the clouds.

* * *

If you are wondering what happens next, the next chapter update for Who You Are will answer the questions. Thanks for reading, thanks to Kat for beta-ing, and thanks to Em for being Em


End file.
